Necrophilic
by Predominantly Normal
Summary: 'You will never, ever, forget those words he told you once upon a time; "Together Forever, Right?"' Kyman angst.


**I DO NOT OWN SOUTH PARK**

_Author's Notes:_

_-I am not really... Familiar with Kyman. This was originally a Style fic, but Kyman seems much more plausible here._

_-Necrophilia: The attraction toward corpses_

_-I liked writing this, actually, even though it's simply practice to help my angst._

_-Review, please._

* * *

**Kyle's P.O.V.**

You stand up, eyes dully looking at a constant forward. They hopelessly direct themselves toward the wall. On the other side of that wall, there's a window. A window that sees the sun rise and fall while you rot here. Somehow, however, that fact doesn't seem to bother you. The outside is scary, full of evil men and dangers lurking from every corner. He tells you everything about the outside.

Everything that you never plan to see again. The scary night time, the people with guns, just waiting to pop out at you and hurt you. It's horrible. Maybe you went to the outside world once, but never again.

You don't really remember; it's not hard wired into your mind to remember. Even so, the memories are fuzzy, dreamlike almost. Which makes very little sense once you think about it.

Dreaming is not something someone such as you has the privilege of.

He tells you that dreaming is bad. Nightmares that haunt your every being. Things that make you go crazy and make you sick to your stomach. He tells you not to dream. So you don't. It's okay, dreaming is bad anyways; he's just looking out for you.

Because he loves you; doesn't he?

There are blissful moments of day when you are allowed to think. When you can search your fuzzy memory and nitpick those moments of outside. It's not at all scary from your memory. You used to play with a bright orange ball sometimes on the black asphalt. With three other kids.

One of them, you miss an awful lot. He was very close to you, as far as memory has it. You like to remember that he smiled a lot. And that he loved animals. In fact, he especially like sea animals, like whales. He also let you borrow his hat once, when you forgot yours. It was itchy, and you had happened to be allergic to the wool-knit fabric, but you like to think that was your happiest memory.

The next one you were also friends with, but this one has a fuzzier image. He used to miss out on lots of things because he was always getting hurt. And he was always reading some inappropriate magazine with a half-dressed lady on the front. You remember constantly rolling your eyes around him. His favorite color was orange, as he wore orange every day. He preferred to be hard to understand when he spoke, but only because if you were his friend, you'd go the extra mile to understand him.

The third one, you like to think you know the best. After all, you do see him every day.

You hear a soft rustling noise that alerts you of his presence. He barges in, frowning heavily. Brown hair is neatly combed to the side of his face, cut in a very businessman-like fashion. You used to tell him how nice it made him look. But he won't accept any compliments now, and you don't intend to give him any. He stares at you with mild disgust, his lip drawn upwards in a snarl. He adjusts the tie on his neck and snorts.

"You look rather repulsing today." He states bleakly. "Have you taken a shower lately?" A hand flashes out and snatches your green hat off your head, revealing a bout of curly, red hair. He sniffs the curls delicately, before smashing the hat on your head lopsidedly.

"You smell awful." He growls, crossing his arms. "And you didn't make me anything to eat, either. That means you're not eating anything tonight."

Just like you didn't eat yesterday, or the day before, or for the last week and a half. You don't really mind though. It isn't like you're getting any thinner. And he's just trying to make you look pretty. You don't want to be fat. He doesn't want that, either, so he's keeping you safe. He's brave, you think, for daring to eat.

Although he isn't that thin. Fat rolls off his skin in layers, but he still looks fair sized. To you, he is very fair indeed. The fat gives him personality and flair. He looks nice anyway you look at him. Much nicer than you, at least.

He snatches up your wrist and feels the leathery, dried skin. Wrinkling up his nose in disgust, he releases it. You wish he would hold your hand more often. You wish he would touch you in general more often. But he doesn't get your message, and you sure as hell don't vocalize it. You can't vocalize it. He's only doing what's best for you.

"You need lotion." He grimaces, brow furrowing and a frown replaces the snarl. "Your skin is getting dry, and it's fucking revolting." He runs one finger along your neck, pausing at the sternum.

You want to tell him to stop, but this is the most contact he's given you for days. His touch is not gentle, however. He presses down on the sensitive flesh hard, nails biting into the skin and leaving crescent-shaped indents. His cold, brown eyes stare at your dull green ones. You stare back, unblinking. His lip drawls in a small angry frown. You hate seeing him angry. He looks rather ugly, in fact, when his face is contorted so.

"Where is your love now, Kyle?" He asks incredulously, anger boiling. His voice grows with every drawn out word, until he booms with rage. "WHERE IS YOUR HERO NOW? NOBODY IS HERE TO SWEEP YOU OFF YOUR GODDAMNED FEET ANYMORE." His angry yelling dies down to a sadistic whisper, and his face edges towards your ear.

"No." He smirks, and you are reminded that this is always your favorite part of morning. "You're all _mine_."

He starts to ramble, clutching your wrist in a hold that would be painful if not for the moment at hand. Words exit his mouth about how he's going to protect you from 'him'. He likes to talk about 'him' a whole lot. He tells you that 'him' is a bastard, and that he never wants you to leave his side for 'him'. It's not like he needs to tell you, though. You'd never dream of leaving. You don't dare dream at all, in fact.

"You're a little rat." He says maliciously. "But you're my little rat."

Then he starts to leave. He has to work in the outside world. You don't want him to go, but you have no choice. It's not like you have the power to stop him. You hate it when he leaves you. He says it's because the outside has drawn him away. You wish he could stay with you forever, just like you do for him.

With one last glance, he draws his calloused finger along your jawline and smirks. He gently presses his lips to your cheek. "I love you. And nobody else gets to have you but me, okay?" He says in a hushed voice, before leaving you.

You wish you could reply. You wish you could tell him you love him too, and that 'him' will never take you away. You want, more than anything to trace your fingertip across his chin like he does you. You want to protect him; to keep him safe from the outside, from dreams, from getting ugly. You wish you could take that coldly glinting knife and drive it deep into his heart, just like he did. Because you want to save him; to keep him safe. You want to immortalize him, like he did you.

You will never, ever, forget those words he told you once upon a time;

_"Together Forever, Right?" _


End file.
